Location, Location, Location

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Sept. 19/2020

I have permitted myself to look at on line real estate sites.

Moving out of this house, if it happens, is probably three or four years away. There are complications. Two existing homes, two careers, two families, and the accumulation of two lifetimes. Two states. Two sets of tax laws.

But I let myself look.

Some things are already in the calculation. Waterfront. Lake, by most indications. Isolation. Trees, acreage, spots made for coffee and contemplation. A kitchen for two to work side by side in cooperation. Blue and white is the kitchen color coordination.

For the rest of it, I leave that to the exigencies of fate. The happy home will present itself somehow – it will ask to be owned. I’m just making myself available to its inevitable presentation.

Just as long as it doesn’t become too much of a preoccupation.

Collared Greens

Harlei-Dog’s collar has small flecks of blood on it from the day during quarantine – can you blame them – when he fought Daisy-Dog for the first bite of the still-too-hot sweet potato.

Daisy-Dog’s collar comes off too easily when she prances into the too-tall weeds while the dew is still on them and she comes prancing back like she’s been to the raccoons’ secret pool party.

I collar both of them as they try to sneak in too quiet to smear the too-tight-in-some-places too-far-apart-in-others wood kitchen floor. “Paws!” I demand. They never wipe them. Too stubborn.

I get a little hot under the collar. “PAWS!” They ignore me. The green weeds call. Too tempting.

It’s a good thing I own a weed whacker. I’m gonna chop me some greens.

Post script: Daisy-Dog actually did wriggle out of, and lose, her collar in the weeds. I’m still looking: Sunday, 6:43 pm

Man Woman Birth Death Infinity…and this is a pussycat

Or; Things My Father Can’t Remember Because He Only Saved The Cancelled Checks Since 1958, or Three Years Before Ben Casey Was Even On TV

You regular readers of this blog (all 8.4 of you) know how many times I have told you titles of the memoirs I’m never gonna write (Complicated Grief for Volume II; The Futons of My Dwelling-Place was for Volume III; Big Blue Beaver is Volume IV) and we all giggle hee hee hee she’s not even sixty and she has like a thousand pages of memoirs outlined. Turns out I come by it honestly, or at least somewhat.

My father, who will turn 87 in September, is writing his memoirs. I see this as another in a long chain of actions designed to make us all feel like mental midgets who struggle to keep up with someone who ought to be deep in the kind of cognitive failure that would prevent him from remembering Man Woman Person Camera TV, like 1) 2004: builds portable air conditioner from fan belt and lantern battery during Hurricane Ivan; 2) 2009: Successfully navigates financial meltdown using Lotus 1-2-3; 3) 2017: Dismisses entire fidget spinner industry with a cavalier, “Oh that’s just ball bearings.” Forget Shark Tank. If we had allowed it, and if he had cared to do so, my father would have been the Big Remora, and cleaned the corners of the tank with a q-tip while he was at it.

So I was delighted and not astonished and also somewhat intimidated by this news, and I got that little glow of see-I-do-have-value-in-this-enterprise when he confessed to me that he needed my help filling in some points. Perfect, I thought. My writerly habits and talents, and my dedication to using this blog to document the small details of our lives in oblique and poetic ways, are being recognized and honored. Sure, I said. What delightful anecdote that I have kept in any one of a dozen commonplace books, journals, diaries, etc., can be of assistance in this project?

“What year did you get married?” he asked. “I looked, but there’s a gap in my cancelled checks. I can’t find the 1980s.”

OK, let’s deconstruct this a bit at a time.

  1. You have cancelled checks OLDER than the 1980s?
  2. You only remember a significant event in your child’s life, the only time you gave a daughter away in marriage, because you paid for it?
  3. Your first instinct on not being able to remember the date was financial records and not, for instance, the photo album with the gold engraved date on the cover?
  4. The cancelled check boxes are easier to find than the photo album with the gold engraved date on the cover?
  5. The cancelled check boxes from the 1970s are easier to find than the photo album with the gold engraved date on the cover?

So that’s where my head is at today. I am jotting this one down, because I plan to continue this train of thought by actually documenting some of the delightful anecdotes and passing them on to Samuel Pepys, over there, complete with the kind of details often missing from, say, the receipt. In the meantime, please enjoy this blast from the past.